Home Is

“Home is not where you live, but where they understand you.” Christian Morgenstern

When I was younger, home was moments, usually alone in nature, once on a hill in a fresh snowfall under a million stars in overwhelming silence, another time camping out and being alone and awake in that moment when the earth holds its breath between the night sounds and the morning sounds. Home in those moments was simply the sense of oneness with everything, of being totally at home with the whole universe and its creator.
Now in my old age, sometimes my sense of being home comes when someone ‘gets’ something I write or I read something that beautifully describes something deep within me that I had not been able to express.
Other times it’s helping an old friend in the nursing home recapture good memories or rubbing another old friend’s brow after surgery or holding a friend’s hand when they are dying peacefully.
Sometimes it’s delighting in a young granddaughter with a thirst for knowledge, or a great-grandson discovering a love for playing the drums, or a grown grandson having the courage to go to Indonesia to teach, or a middle-aged son going to live in Cambodia to nurture orphans with HIV. It’s a grown grandson that calls you on your birthday.
It’s your family rallying to help you in times of need. It’s their funny funny humor and infectious laughter when working and being together. It’s a son staying day in and day out at the hospital with you. It’s your husband having filled the house with bright yellow flowers when you come home from leading a workshop.